


most agitated hands, be my salvation

by friendly_ficus



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Gift Giving, also i'm not a knitter but this fic is about arm knitting which i am somewhat able to do, and i will give zag my own focus strategies, i know the summary doesn't show it but this is mostly zag pov, kind of a seasonal fluffy thing idk, zag just loves people so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27487471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendly_ficus/pseuds/friendly_ficus
Summary: It is her noble cousin’s sixth call in as many hours.Athena does not begrudge him—if anything, it’s flattering to see her brooch winking on his chiton, a scar of silver against the red and gray—but it’s a concerning variation in the pattern he’s been so quick to establish. It’s not difficult to envision Zagreus throwing himself against his challenge again and again with the wholehearted abandon he seems so fond of. It is understandable, that after so long kept apart from the rest of his family he is eager to make his escape and reach them.Understandable, but perhaps not entirely sensible.(The one where Zagreus learns to knit.)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 228





	most agitated hands, be my salvation

**Author's Note:**

> i’m fairly early in the game (and i am Bad At Video Games) so some of this fic might not be very canon compliant, forgive me i am only just consistently making it to elysium. there shouldn’t be any big spoilers in this because i’m pretty sure i don’t know them yet :P

It is her noble cousin’s sixth call in as many hours.

Athena does not begrudge him—if anything, it’s flattering to see her brooch winking on his chiton, a scar of silver against the red and gray—but it’s a concerning variation in the pattern he’s been so quick to establish. It’s not difficult to envision Zagreus throwing himself against his challenge again and again with the wholehearted abandon he seems so fond of. It is understandable, that after so long kept apart from the rest of his family he is entirely eager to make his escape and reach them.

Understandable, but perhaps not entirely sensible.

So the goddess takes a moment to regard him through the narrow window the boons allow, and watches him shift from foot to foot, the way he taps his fingers against the hilt of his spear. Not impatience, no, but with continuous movement. She has never seen Zagreus  _ still;  _ he is always on the edge of taking the next step.

Athena is fond of him, in truth, not just for the nectar he offers or the pleasing way he carries her token on his journeys. Zagreus is quick and clever when it suits him, and he has a genial manner that makes him easy to like. She is curious to see what he will make of Olympus, how he will approach the rest of their family.

So it is not a surprise that she is moved to assist him a little more than she has in the past. Indeed, it might be some plot of the Fates, for he comes before her with a ball of shining yarn already in his possession. 

“Cousin, allow me to share something more with you,” she offers, as he contemplates just how to use a portion of her power. “It may be of some assistance to you—I am the patron of weaving, you will learn quickly from me—and if not, it will simply be a token of our friendship.”

Zagreus assents, and she grants him this knowledge:  _ here are your hands, here is some yarn. You will find no limits to what you can do with it. _

It comes with a warning, bitter to his ears, Arachne still a fresh enough indignity that she nearly mentions the incident.

_ You will find no limits,  _ the goddess cautions, as he sees visions of spiders and great tapestries,  _ but you shall never be  _ me,  _ Cousin. Do not overreach. _

She shapes it, the string of images and the press of muscle memory, even as he accepts the favor. He has no loom, no needles, no tools to work with beyond himself and a bit of yarn. She does not want him to run at  _ this  _ headlong, as he does with everything else.

Zagreus blinks away light and sound, dye and fibers he has no names for, the feeling of the goddess’ hands over his own, her voice in his ear explaining stitches. Ariadne’s yarn is still in his hands, though it would usually be gone by now.

He sits down on the edge of the fountain, the sound of the Phlegethon and the wretches far away, and makes a slipknot around his wrist. From there, it’s only a matter of counting.

\---

When he emerges from the rhythm of his count, shifting the loops from his arm and weaving the ends in, Zagreus feels... refreshed. Newly-focused, like he might be able to stride right into a fight with Asterius and make it out the other side. He’s spent who knows how long in the fountain chamber—long enough to get a crick in his neck, quick enough to vanish as it may be—with the yarn making loops between his hands. It wasn’t the kind of rest Hypnos indulges in, as he was conscious the whole time, pouring the whole of his focus into the action of making, but he feels  _ good. _

The scarf is a shining loop in the red light of the fiery river; at the right angle it looks a little like metal, like a great chain of gold. He’s not sure this was the intended use for Ariadne’s gift, but he’s also not very interested in undoing all his work.

So he loops it around his neck a few times, and goes on to slaughter his way through Asphodel.

\---

Charon’s shop is in the same place as always; he’s very near the Hydra, then, and it might be spitting lava or throwing arcs of light or something new and deadly and scarf-destroying.

“Say, Charon mate,” he muses, digging obols from his pouch to buy the pile of gemstones on offer. “Not sure if it fits your theme, but I’m not sure it’s the best move to bring this scarf into the next room with me. Interested?”

"Hhhrrhhhh… mnnrraa...”

“I mean, it’s fairly golden, you’ve got a whole gold thing going on with the obols. It couldn’t hurt to try it on.”

"Hheeehhh…"

Zagreus grins, reaching up to uncoil the scarf. It looks even more like gold, as he passes it to the boatman. For his part, Charon guides it to settle across his shoulders rather than figuring out a way to loop it over his hat again. It sits above his string of coins, creating an interesting impression of... softness is the wrong word, with Charon, but he does seem comfortable with it.

"Urrraaaaauuhgggghhh...”

“Definitely suits you, mate. Take it with my thanks, for all you’ve done for me.”

Charon smiles. Zagreus can’t see it, but he knows it’s there.

\---

There’s a package on his desk when he gets back to his rooms. It’s soft and squishy, wrapped in a bit of orange cloth and tied with a purple string. There’s no note, but the ghost of a laugh brushes past his ear when he opens it, almost too quick to catch. From Hermes, then, though how he got it all the way down here is a mystery.

Two skeins of yarn sit atop the Fated List. They’re strange, almost difficult to look at. The colors are shifting constantly, from gray to purple to gold between one blink and the next. From the corner of his eye they glint a pale blue, but when he returns his gaze they’re olive green. His fingers itch and he gives into the impulse immediately, burying his hands in the soft yarn, though the action is sure to ruin how it’s all been wound together.

To his surprise, his fingers hit the yarn and don’t stop going, don’t emerge from the other side. It’s like there’s an endless amount of it in the skein, or at least a great deal more than there seems to be, folded into the small space. And it  _ is  _ soft all the way through, as far as he can reach.

Zagreus has been surrounded by luxury all his life, but lately the richness of his environment has given way to the sting of blades and an ever-growing familiarity with the feeling of bleeding out. The contrast is a brief diversion and he indulges, shifting his hold to bring the yarn up to his face. Yes, it’s very soft, and when he brings it close it turns a shade of green he’s only ever seen in the mirror, the color of his eye.

Then he packs the skeins away into his money pouch (how they fit in  _ there  _ he doesn’t wonder; it can fit an uncountable amount of obols, of course it can fit infinite yarn as well) and heads to the courtyard, where Skelly calls a greeting as he goes to take up his sword.

He makes it all the way to Elysium this time, before the butterflies tear him to shreds.

\---

Zagreus is not  _ sulking.  _ He is very much not sulking, because it would be pointless and unproductive to do so. It wouldn’t serve his goals even a little, to be sulking about the butterflies in Elysium killing him for the fourth time. Achilles would tell him to develop a strategy, if he asked, and so that’s what Zagreus is doing.

He’s just doing it laying on the carpet in his room, intermittently groaning at the ceiling. 

In a few minutes he’ll get back up because he doesn’t know how to stay down, because he  _ has  _ to find his mother, has to get out of the Underworld. He’ll get up because he never learned how to give up, no matter how many times Father tried to teach that lesson. He’ll get up because he’s Zagreus and that’s what he  _ does,  _ walking his way up out of the Styx every time he’s swept away by the current.

He could take a break—Hypnos would put him to sleep for a while, if he asked, since he has so much trouble falling asleep on his own—but it’s like an itch under his skin, twitching through his muscles. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to sleep, he wants to move, but every move he makes leads him to getting devoured by a swarm of pink butterflies.

Zagreus closes his eyes, and tiredness doesn’t come.

What  _ does  _ come is the faintest sound from the hall, the  _ swish  _ of a feather duster punctuated by Dusa’s humming. It makes him smile just a little, to think of her bobbing her way through the rafters. Dusa’s a more important part of the House than anybody really gives her credit for.

That’s a shame, in Zagreus’ opinion. Dusa’s great.

He opens his eyes, casts around for his money pouch and digs out the yarn that’s been languishing there. It’s the barest inkling of an idea, the memory of how focused he’d felt after Asphodel, the impression of Charon’s smile at the gift. Maybe a way to recover from this bad streak and show his appreciation in one sweep.

So, how would Dusa wear a scarf...

\---

It’s pretty good, for something he made on his bedroom floor. It might even be good for something that  _ wasn’t  _ made on a bedroom floor, but he doesn’t exactly have a wide frame of reference when it comes to winter clothing. Zagreus doesn’t know much about winter at all, save for the fact that it’s apparently happening on the surface, killing mortals by the thousand along with the war that’s got Than so busy.

The yarn settled on a color as he worked it, looping back and forth between his arms. He made this one thinner than his first attempt, based on four loops instead of eight. A soft, pale purple—lavender, according to a passing shade—and much longer. He’s not exactly sure how she’ll wear it, if she even wants to. Individual loops for each of her snakes? All of it coiled together around one of them?

It struck him about two thirds of the way into making it that this might not be the most suitable gift for someone who has no neck, but at that point he’d been committed.

All in all, it’s pretty good.

He hopes that’s why Dusa’s looking at him with such wide eyes, that he hasn’t misstepped and offended her somehow.

“You made this,” she says, an interesting combination of hushed and high-pitched, “for  _ me?  _ Are you  _ sure?  _ Because it’s okay if it’s for someone else, you know! And you just, um, wanted somebody’s opinion on it!”

“I—yes, it’s for you. If you want it, I mean. I didn’t really think about the logistics of it.” Zagreus brings up a hand to scratch the back of his head, because the logistics of it  _ are  _ kind of bad, but it’s the only thing he knows how to make beyond violence and he doesn’t have any nectar to give along with it or anything to make it better.

“I want it!” Dusa yelps, wincing at her own volume. “I mean, thank you! Nobody’s ever made me something like this before!”

“Well, good. I mean, not good that nobody’s ever given you something like this—” Zagreus breaks off with a wince, and hopes this  _ giving handmade gifts  _ thing gets a little easier, because it’s strangely awkward in a way he’s never quite had to navigate before.

“I know what you mean,” Dusa says, smiling. “I’ll take good care of it. Something tells me Cerbie’d be happy to chew it up, but I won’t let him.”

“I thought about making him one, but he’d probably rather have a toy or something. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work, Dusa. Didn’t mean to distract you or anything.”

When she floats back up into the rafters, the scarf vanishes with her.

He doesn’t see her wear it while she works, but on the rare occasion she’s in the lounge, he notices her snakes nestling in loops of lavender scarf.

\---

After that, it kind of becomes a  _ thing.  _ He’s not sure he meant it to be, really, but when he needs a moment to gather his focus between chambers or a few beats where he can focus entirely on something small enough to fit in his hands, he reaches in his pouch to find the ever-changing yarn. Even when he doesn’t pull it out to work, the feeling of it makes a little curl of happiness bloom in his chest.

The next time he settles down to work with it, he’s just killed the two Inferno-Bombers that make their home in Tartarus. He can feel himself coming down from the fight, heartbeat slowing, but his mind is still going, going, going and he can’t quite stop darting his gaze around the room. Even after speaking to Lady Aphrodite, who’d cooed and given him a boon, he can’t settle the way he needs to to continue his journey.

So he sits with his back up against one of the crumbling pillars, and digs the yarn from his pouch. And he makes the slipknot and starts counting loops.

When he shuts his eyes he thinks of Hypnos, jolting awake and fumbling with his list, always ready with a grin and a word of advice. He starts working and the yarn turns even softer in his fingers, plush and comforting. The weight of the scarf hanging from his arm becomes heavy and comforting, a little warm in a way he attributes to lingering heat from the bombs or a general coolness to the surrounding stone or some magic of weaving that Athena hadn’t felt was important to mention.

It should be said that Zagreus rarely thinks about what it means, that he’s a god. It’s the only way he knows how to be, after all, and he’s never been particularly contemplative about things like that. He never wonders if it’s some little piece of  _ him,  _ going into the work he does.

The scarf comes out red; not Zagreus’ red, the color of the Styx, nor Hypnos’ brighter hue. Something deeper, nearer to wine than to blood, and plush enough to be folded a few times and used as a pillow. It’s warm across his lap, while he weaves the ends in, and he feels his eyelids get a little heavy.

Hypnos will like it, if it’s enough to get Zagreus tired. He’s sure to.

Zagreus lets his head loll to the side a bit, and takes a very brief nap.

\---

“One of those Exalted Spears got you, huh? Well, they’re in Elysium for a reason! Just be sure to get out of the way of the greatest mortal warriors next time, and you’ll be fine!” 

Hypnos is giving him the same bright grin he always gives, and it’s enough to shake the lingering sensation of impalement away. Zagreus experiences that strange moment of doubt again—will Hypnos like this gift? Will he want it? Will he throw it away?—but hey,  _ fear is for the weak  _ and all.

(When Achilles had said that, he probably hadn’t been talking about scarves, but it’s a pretty versatile piece of advice.)

“Made this for you,” he says, going for casual. 

Casual kind of goes away when he draws the scarf from his pouch; the red is deep and glorious and four nearby shades suddenly yawn at the sight of it. Hypnos stares, hands flexing a little behind his floating clipboard. He looks a little like Cerberus did, when Zagreus brought him a satyr sack for the first time and it quickly became his favorite treat. Less drool, but only barely.

“For me? Wow! Nobody’s made me anything in an  _ age,”  _ Hypnos says, like it’s a light thing. “I didn’t think people really thought about me much!”

Sometimes he says things that ring a little wrong, that feel like they should be sadder, but it’s not the time to think about that because he’s pushed his clipboard to the side and is making little grabbing motions. 

“If it makes you too warm, with your cape and all,” Zagreus shifts a little, glances up to make sure Father’s still focused on a pile of parchmentwork. “You don’t have to wear it or anything.”

Hypnos makes an outraged noise. “If you think I’m not wearing this,” Zagreus hands the scarf over, “soft, comfortable,  _ amazing,  _ scarf...” 

He trails off, brings it to his chest and clutches it there for a few moments, breathing the breaths of someone deeply asleep. He barely opens his eyes after a moment, lazy and content, and asks, “What’s this thing made of, anyway?”

“Yarn?”

“It’s really nice,” Hypnos murmurs, starting to drift off. “Really nice...”

The little curl of happiness in Zagreus’ chest blooms once more, far more than it does when it’s just him in a random chamber of the Underworld. There’s a kind of joy in giving, he’s always thought, that you can’t really find anywhere else. This feels like giving nectar but  _ more,  _ because  _ he’s  _ the reason Hypnos is happy, the reason Dusa hums a little more lately, the reason Charon  _ hrrrn- _ ed about his professional associate complimenting his new scarf.

“Glad you like it,” he tells the sleeping Hypnos, and he means every word.

\---

Elysium is calm, at the fountain. Not as calm as it is at the side of Zagreus’ newest shade friend, but calm nonetheless. It’s not the sort of eternity  _ he’d  _ want, just sitting by a fountain forever, but he can see how it might appeal to some.

It evidently doesn’t appeal to the denizens of Elysium all too much, if the crowds at the arena and the myriad of foes that face him each time he tries to pass through the realm are any indicator, but there’s something nice about the quiet anyway. Maybe it’s how there are no Nemean Chariots rumbling around. That’s probably it, actually.

“Peace,” Zagreus tells the empty air, “is the absence of exploding chariots.”

He can feel, cool in his skull, the echoes of Than’s bell ringing in the previous chamber. Maybe if Death would show up while he was near a fountain, he’d be in a better mood.

It’s not that he  _ likes  _ upsetting Than. He doesn’t really like upsetting  _ anyone  _ (with a few notable exceptions) and he especially doesn’t like the look in the gold eyes, the clenched line of his jaw. But he can’t stop, so he can’t stop upsetting Than, so he’s caught in a little loop.

The yarn’s been around his arms for a while now, split between them in a way that means he’s going to have to figure out which arm he was switching to when he got lost in thought. He counts and rediscovers his place.

As soon as the yarn leaves the skein, this time, it’s turning that deep blue-gray that Than wears, flecked with specks of what could be bronze. It’s not entirely unlike stars, though the flecks are larger than the sparks of light he’s seen through the Chaos Gates. Somewhere in the codex, Achilles wrote about stars. Zagreus has never seen them.

Even if he didn’t have to find his mother, he thinks he might be striving for the surface anyway. There’s so much of everything, and he’s never seen any of it.

But,  _ Than.  _ He’s counting and he’s thinking about Than.

Zagreus finds himself murmuring a few words as he works, a quiet stream of consciousness. Not prayer, exactly—his experience with prayer is new and mostly relegated to calling down the fury of one of his relatives—but well-wishes and nonsense phrases, things he likes, things he hopes Than will come to understand. A little bit of a confession, but the confession is  _ I can’t stop, I never will, I wouldn’t even if I could. _

It hurts, a little, but it’s true and Zagreus can’t turn away from it just because he’s afraid of the pain.

The scarf is nothing like a promise, but it might be an apology:  _ I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. _

\---

“I made this for you,” he says, a little harsher than he means to. 

_ I need you to like this,  _ Zagreus doesn’t say. _ I made this for you, I need you to like this.  _

Than reaches out and takes the scarf with one gauntleted hand.

“It’s nice,” he murmurs, and Zagreus realizes that the metallic flecks are gold, that they match his eyes exactly.

Then Than disappears in his usual flash of energy, and the prince goes back to the courtyard and takes Coronacht out.

\---

He makes it to the stairwell between Tartarus and Asphodel, the sting of the whip still bright and painful against his skin. He’s bleeding, slow and sluggish, and sits with his back against the cool glass of the display case. The keepsakes inside twinkle.

The cuts will be sealed by the time he’s finished. The slipknot doesn’t take any thought at all and he curls yarn around his arms and absolutely does not think about how Meg’s still pissed at him about the whole escaping/disobeying his father/disobeying her boss thing, about how he’s not totally sure if a bottle of nectar here and there can really mend things.

Her earring is warm, the same temperature as his skin. It makes a little  _ click  _ against the display case, but he’s not doing so hot and it’s probably a better idea to stick with what he’s got for now.

Something to keep him going, even if it means going through  _ her. _

The scarf is magenta, same as the whip. He tries not to get blood on it.

\---

He doesn’t give the scarf to Meg. She might not accept it, if he comes right out and says it and she has to look at what it means and he has to be honest about what it means, that it’s  _ care.  _ Everything works this smoothly because neither of them are talking about care anymore, earring notwithstanding. 

(It’s kind of not working very smoothly at all, but then, he's trying to break out of the Underworld on a regular basis and Meg is definitely  _ not cool  _ with that.)

No, what  _ Zagreus  _ does is give the Wretched Broker an extra handful of gemstones and a pleading look, and then there’s a package waiting for Meg in the lounge the next time she ends up there.

And he doesn’t mention it and she doesn’t mention it, but he catches a glimpse of her leaving the House with more magenta than he’s used to. It’s the barest impression of color, but Meg doesn’t wear her whip around her neck.

He never sees her wearing it, after that, but Meg doesn’t usually get rid of things that are hers.

\---

Zagreus sits in Asphodel and thinks about weapons. 

There’s smoke curling from his clothes, a few burns from the lava on his ankles. He’s just survived the witches circle—defeated never really feels like the word, with this particular challenge—and the Twin Fists are sitting at his side. 

The yarn is turning soft green to soft blue, and all of Asphodel feels hushed as Zagreus counts. He is thinking about the Twin Fists until he is thinking about the yarn and the process of knitting and it drives the rest of the thoughts from his head.

His hands are the most dangerous weapon in the world, according to his teacher. Tangled in the soft yarn, he can imagine it.

Zagreus is capable of holding a great many thoughts in his head, all at once. One of the reasons the knitting is so good is that it usually forces some of them out, makes him make room for counting and remembering to tug the rows even and knowing that he’s going to the left arm or the right one. When he’s finished, it normally means that there’s a lot of extra space to think left over.

It  _ should  _ be working now, but he keeps thinking about Achilles. How he’d stood calmly while Father threatened him and Zagreus could do nothing, for any intervention on his part would only make things worse. Achilles wasn’t afraid, then.

It seems to have come to naught, that there has been no harm visited on Achilles, but Zagreus... worries. Orpheus proved that Father’s favor is changeable well enough—and Achilles will not back down, ever.

You can’t really put that in a scarf, is the thing. It’s not meant to be a thing of valor at all.

But the only thing he knows about Achilles beyond courage and encouragement is grief, so that’s what he’s got. The yarn is soft and Zagreus feels strangely melancholy, sitting in the middle of the lava fields. What he has when he’s done is a scarf that shifts in hue between the green and blue, oddly faded in a way he isn’t sure yarn is supposed to get. It’s the first one he ever thinks about throwing away.

He doesn’t, but he thinks about it.

\---

When it comes to giving Achilles the gift, he doesn’t hesitate. Fear is for the weak, after all.

He thumps it down on the table in the lounge, though it doesn’t make much of a sound, and declares, “I made this for you.”

“I’m honored, lad, but when did you even learn to do this?” 

He’s glad he didn’t throw it away in Asphodel, after all, because it means the whole story can come out here. There’s not much  _ of  _ a story, but Achilles nods along as he explains about the goddess and the yarn and how it helps recenter him in the middle of his attempts. He offers a few tips for focus, listens when Zagreus gets caught up in his last time slaying the Bone Hydra and trails off into an evaluation of boons from Poseidon versus boons from Zeus.

The scarf is in his hands the entire time and he looks down at it from time to time, watches the colors shift. 

(If the lad asked him, Achilles might just throw his spear at Lord Hades himself. He’s already in direct opposition to the Lord of the Dead and, being dead, that is not a great place to be. But if the lad asked—well, it’s good that he hasn’t asked. That he likely won’t think to, at least for a while.)

There’s another reason why the most dangerous weapon in the world is an open hand: it can reach out.

\---

Inside the Chaos Gate, his feet dangle out over eternity. Zagreus sits on the edge of the platform, silent but for the near-nonexistent sound of the yarn in his hands.

He can feel Chaos’ regard, pressing all around him. They’re a lot closer, here, but he’s felt them watching before. It doesn’t worry him very much.

When he gets up to leave, he’s going to be very slow for a while. It might get him killed. It might not.

Right now, it means that he’s trying to get used to his new movement speed. The confusion that comes with it leads to him overcorrecting at one point, shifting, and both skeins tumble into the void. He pauses, heart seizing, but the yarn doesn’t go taut.

He can feel them watching, a tiny iota of their power shifting the fathomless space around him. And so he keeps working.

The scarf is a deeper blue than Zagreus has ever seen, glinting with strands of purple and black and the occasional thread of pearlescent gray running through it.

They watch him weave the ends in, tuck everything into his pouch. When he turns back to the platform, the skeins are sitting behind him as though they’d never fallen at all.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, and steps through the gate to die.

\---

Nyx is in her corner when he arrives back at the House, with the lilacs and blue laurels around her. Father is away on some incomprehensible piece of business—a spot of luck or the influence of someone else, because Zagreus would ignore whatever scoffing came with this gift but now he doesn’t even have to.

He presents her with it and she smiles, tucks it around herself immediately. She’s known that he does this at  _ least  _ since he gave Dusa hers. Maybe even earlier, if she’d seen Charon. Maybe she spoke about it with Athena before Zagreus even got a clue, for all he knows.

“I appreciate this gift,” she tells him, and he feels that familiar joy bubble up again. “It is an honor to have something made by your own hands.”

“Do you—do you think my mother will want one?”

Sometimes, Nyx has a way of looking at him that makes him feel very young.

“Oh, child. Once you reach her she would love to have something from you. I am sure of it.”

\---

The short one has laughter in his voice, when he asks Asterius to wait after their spar. He presents him with a scarf wide enough to circle his neck, in a blazing red. 

It’s the short one’s colors, the red of the Styx. A taunt for the king, but a genuine gift. 

The short one is not given to lying, from all Asterius has seen of him, and it is a fine thing to have something from a god, even if it never gets cold in Elysium.

“It is comfortable,” he rumbles later, as they wait for the short one to arrive, and Theseus splutters about daemons and traps and temptations. 

And it is a very comfortable scarf.

**Author's Note:**

> title for this fic is the first line from Cory Wade’s “Knitting Litany,” a poem i very much recommend.  
> this is just kinda Soft... this game is so good and gift-giving makes me want to make the gifts, the seasons are changing, i was in the mood to write some unrepentant fluff, i relearned how to arm knit infinity scarves for this fic :)  
> leave a comment and let me know what you think :) i really treasure them!


End file.
